pictures,
the cliché of memories...
you empty out
the loose tea...
She drowns dreams in a soapy bathtub
Breathe the suds in deep...
To be or not to be,
the throat of an hourglass...
What if we won’t wake
for we are fugitives of...
To camouflage their
smeared hands they deliquesce in...
some days is as if
i were an airplane being piloted by God knows what...
Wheel marks
on the mirage...
In any second our wings portion death and life.
We are equals as we are together...
One and two are another paradox,
two absolutely diverse opposites...
graffitied clouds
whither from a night sky...
Luminous creatures
hold your posture...